Damn girrrrrl.

Well I made it. 20 years on, little 5"2 me is still here, live and kicking. To think it was two decades ago I arrived 12 weeks early in Jesmond hospital, and the doctors didn't know whether I was strong enough to pull through. I weighed as much as a bag of sugar and wasn't even as long as a small loaf of bread. Today, twenty long years later, I've changed a bit. I can now look back over those two decades with a mixture of smiles and grimaces, tears and tantrums. 

However, the most important thing is, I'm happy. I'm not sure what my first memory was; I remember being in nursery and wearing those sparkly pink star stickers you used to make 'art' with as earrings, and then being taken on our first 'trip' from nursery to 'big school' at 4 years old. I remember holidays in Scotland with family, even if they're all fuzzy and rough around the edges. But to reiterate, I don't know which, if any, is my first real, lucid memory. Not my first word, or my first step or the first time I rode my bike without stabilisers. But my parents do. It just depends what is important to someone I guess. 

I'm proud to say I've achieved a lot since those days. I completely primary school and came out of those doors one last time on a sunny Friday afternoon, and bursting into tears after I promised myself I wouldn't cry, a slightly different person from the first time I set foot through the doors. Secondary school, I was still quiet. If I had a £1 for every time someone used that adjective to describe me. You'd think it would be spun positively, but it isn't really. 'Quiet' makes people wonder why you don't speak, what you're harbouring or holding back. It's like they either think you're disinterested with a tendency to lash out or they think your confidence levels are so low you daren't breath a word in front of others. Well, I don't honestly know why for years I barely spoke. Hundreds of questions were whispered to my parents and relatives at 'home time' or parents evenings, including "does she speak?" To which my mam and dad used to laugh, or smirk, and say "she never shuts up." 

Luckily, I eventually, in time, came out of myself. I established myself, got myself a personality, or defined the one in a public space I was always so sure of privately, I even had all of my hair cut off at 14 because I wanted to. I didn't care what other people thought of me because of it. At 15, I think I probably became my own person. I stood up for what I wanted and what I thought was right. Screams and fights and spat-out thoughts you can never take back. Friendships irrevocably ruined. Making the choice to walk away from a poisonous friendship, and holding my head high. 

16 sparked a new chapter. Year 9 meant we chose our GCSE options, and okay, I passed them with flying colours. Everything changed, for the better. I established some friendships that would last a long time, and others that would break over Facebook and silly comments, but then again were they really up to that much? I chose my A-levels, passed them (well we won't talk about French) and got accepted to uni. Lost some people close to me and made some new friends. I fell in and out of relationships, made enemies and really bad decisions. Drank too much, swore too much and spent too much money on clothes. I pierced my ear and discovered sambuca and started speaking my mins a bit too much. I established what I needed and what I wanted from life, as well as who. 

Twenty years later, I'm smiling and hungover and the bags under my eyes are showing a bit too evidently. I have two decades worth of photos and memories, and they're pretty brilliant to be honest. I love everyone in my life and I'm so grateful for them and everything they do. So with laughter, smiles and the occasional tear, I say a fond farewell to my teenage years and welcome the next stage of my life with fairly open arms. Oh, and a double vodka in hand. 

Bittersweet.

I turn the big, ugly 2-0 on Tuesday and I've never been more unhappy about it. It's not the fact I'm no longer going to be a teenager, (although I'm not thrilled about it) it's what it represents that makes me sad. It's the fact that I'm turning a corner, a new decade is about to start, 

twenty years worth of life, and I don't think I've got much to be happy about. What have I even got to celebrate? I'm an unemployed almost-twenty year old with no real achievements. I've never felt so boring, and I hate that. It just seems to be adding up to multiple bad days, not just one. Not only am I at uni 9-5 on my birthday, so that means I'm up from six and won't get home til at least six at night, tired and ready to scream probably. I feel in the midst of a quarter-life crisis, and I've began to question everything. From my degree choice to my aspiring career path to everyone in my life and their capabilities. I'm twenty and the only constant in my life is my family, and I won't even be able to spend my day with  them. My close group of friends seems to be dispersing gradually and I feel like I'm losing another friend every day. A day to be remembered? Not likely. I don't want to be twenty. I'm not ready. I wanted to achieve a lot more before I got to this milestone, so I'm feeling like a failure slightly. I don't think I have the support system i first thought, which is awful. To say I'm unhappy at the minute would be an understatement. Although I will say this, I'm going to try my hardest to keep hold of the important people in my life right now, and hopefully, when my next decade comes, they'll be the ones holding my hair back when I've drank too much. If not, I'll hold the door open for you myself, because I'd rather watch you walk away than make the effort with someone who doesn't care about me.

Why so serious?

Remember those days, when you were about 14, and you and your BFFs would have gossipy sleepovers, paint each others' nails and talk into the small hours about that guy you sort of liked in your English class. Those were the days. When 'crushing' on someone didn't have to be a complicated, heart-wrenching, unhappy thing. It was light-hearted, fun and full of giggles and the exchange of stolen glances over the top of battered copies of The Tempest, brought out of their dusty home on the floor of the English cupboard. The feeling, seeing someone reciprocate a smile or even a small 'hello' would make your entire day. When did everything get so complicated?

At the somewhat grand (old) age of 19,  I wonder whether we long for the days that have already passed, the friendships we shouldn't have walked out on and the times that were altogether easier to cope with. I recently heard a song I hadn't heard for what must be five years, and it got me thinking of an old friend. We don't speak much anymore, not for any particular reason, we just grew apart as we got older. However, no matter how long had passed, or whatever disagreements we may have had along the way, none of that seemed to matter when I heard that song, everything was forgotten. It was as if I was back to an easier time.  When school days weren't full of stress and exams, when discussions about guys were naive and pain-free and when friendships were supposed to last forever. 

Everything changes when you reach a certain age. Being 14, so hung up on someone you know, getting carried along by the whole Will he/Wont he? argument you play over and over and over in your head. The funny times seem funnier, the sad times seem more trivial and the great times, seem, well, greater, because, back then, a lot of the serious stuff didn't matter. At 14, if you make a mistake, you can, and undoubtedly will, put it down to experience. Five years later, when you're messing up after god knows how many shots of gin and JD, everything seems threateningly serious. You're officially an adult at 19, you can drink, drive, gamble and vote. You can take out a mortgage or a loan or buy your own house. However, at 19, are we really ready to face the world and every ounce of responsibility that comes with it? Instead, we prepare to leave the nest, with arm-fulls of hope, a suppressed amount of fear, and every now and then, some necessary  dutch courage. 

From the days you spent pouring your heart out to your parents over some little spat with your BFF to the break-up of a 'relationship' at that age, looking back it all seems so innocent, so simple. Fall-outs over who wore the same outfit to someone's birthday party or the fact that two people share an interest in the same guy. No real fights, no bitter slurs and back-stabbing and spreading vicious rumours or brandishing her a "stupid slut." At 19, we hear it all of the time; Know Your Limits, Act Your Age, and Think Before You Speak. None of which were necessary rules to live by at the tiny age of one-four. Now crying over someone seems immature, being upset about having harsh words with friends seems futile, and saying stupid things seems, well, stupid. There are certain expectations everyone has of you after you reach a certain milestone.  Whether you fulfill them or not, is another matter entirely. 

Now, staying up all night, has entirely different connotations. Late-teens and Early-twenties are supposed to have reformed attitudes to things. Chasing someone you have feelings for, or in fact, being chased, suddenly becomes something a bit naive. It's like your unconscious is ready, on its haunches, to scream "GET ON WITH IT!" At fourteen, a love life was a big deal for most people, something you were ready to shout from the rooftops. But now, it's not like that. Little things aren't appreciated. That smile, the few seconds of eye contact, the first stages of getting to know someone, they seem to be swept under the metaphorical carpet of life, to gather as much dust as that battered old copy of The Tempest. Now, you find yourself saying "we just kissed" and watch listeners' eyes sort of glaze over, bored, as if they were expecting something juicier  It's just a stepping stone to something more, and I guess, in a way, it is, but also, it's kind of sad. How can something that used to be such a big deal, now mean so little to us a few years later? Cue our younger selves, bearing refreshing little grins and encouraging you to smile about it.

Your teenage years are supposed to be the best and the worst years of your life. I never really fully understood that until recently. All of the fun and the freedom, with none of the responsibility. As you get older, you're supposed to get wiser, but instead, you just invest more, you make more qualified choices, and when all else fails, you make worse mistakes than any mistake you every made as a teenager. Then again, i guess no one can make your mistakes for you, and you can never truly learn from someone else's. After all, what does it matter if, at nineteen, we still don't know when to stop drinking or realise when you're being played, we're still relatively young, so we'll use that excuse until it expires.

WHEN HARRY MET SALLY

(there will, undoubtedly be many more WHMS references as my blog proceeds!)

Harry: I'm not saying it didn't mean anything. I'm saying why does it have to mean everything?

Sally: Because it does, and you should know that better than anybody, because the minute it happens you walk right out the door! 

Young, free and legal: the perks of being 19.

I felt physically sick at the thought of turning nineteen. It was as if all of the hype surrounding turning 18 had vanished completely, and being one year older only meant one thing, the last stretch of the very much loved teenage years. However, six months later, I'm sort of coming round to the idea, there seem to be some perks after all.

Walking into a bar and flashing your ID with too much confidence, because you know fine well that the date and picture on the card are yours. 

Being the perfect age to distance yourself from school kids, but you still qualify as a 90's child. Meaning you don't feel ancient when you see that the Disney Channel is still showing re-runs of Fresh Prince of Bel Air, despite Will Smith not making an episode for sixteen years. 

Not worrying where or at what point you lost both your dignity and your phone last night, in between downing drinks and singing too loudly, because someone will be able to fill in the gaps, as soon as the photos are uploaded to Facebook.

Being 19, is, perhaps, a blessing in disguise. Sooner or later, the big 2-0 will be looming, and that will be a depressing year.